


Red

by beltainefaerie



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, BDSM, Blood Play, Cutting, Dom!Sherlock, Established Relationship, Knife Play, M/M, PWP, Red Pants Monday, Rope Bondage, Sub!John, bottom!John, top!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-30
Updated: 2013-07-30
Packaged: 2017-12-21 20:33:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/904605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beltainefaerie/pseuds/beltainefaerie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock takes John exactly where he needs to be, eventually.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red

**Author's Note:**

> In homage to the one year anniversary of Red Pants Monday, I present Red, glorious porn without plot. Heed the warnings. If you are bothered by blood, come or consensual cutting, leave now.
> 
> A million thanks to tiger-in-the-flightdeck who read this for me and offered amazing feedback!

Of course the ropes were exotic. A silk and bamboo blend, hand dyed to a lush blood red. Sherlock extolled many virtues of such rope when he had first brought it out, but John was only really interested in how soft it felt against his skin right now. His wrists were twined with rope, stretched out towards opposite ends of the bed, his legs bent over the side. His feet were resting comfortably on the floor, if any part of this could exactly be called comfortable. He could see out of the corner of his eye how the red rope contrasted beautifully with the midnight hued sheets of Sherlock’s bed.   

His arse was at the very edge of the mattress, thighs bound down and apart. He had very high hopes that the position might come in useful later, if he was ever released from these pants, which still hugged his hips and trapped his aching cock. They were exactly the same shade as the ropes. Not what he might have chosen for himself, but now he wore them frequently thinking of times like this whenever he slid them on. And he was sure it made a lovely picture now.

The knife slid teasingly over his skin again and again. The whisper soft touches tracing his collar bones and trailing down his chest were maddening. Taking long, slow breaths, John tried to remain still, but finally he broke his resolve, unable to stop the slight shiver of anticipation. He needed the keen bite of the blade. He had been resolute and oh so good for an interminable time before he gave in, bucking his hips and beginning to, God help him, actually whimper. He couldn’t move much, restrained as he was.  Certainly not enough to damage himself, even if Sherlock wasn’t so perfectly able to predict his movements.

“P...please, Sherlock. I can’t take it,” John breathed.

“I’m hardly doing anything that should warrant begging just yet, John,” Sherlock said flatly, belied by the twinkle in his eye and the barest quirk of a smile that anyone else would have missed.

“That’s the problem, “John muttered, before he could stop himself, but he bit back the rest. _Need to feel you opening me, to bleed beneath you, for the world to disappear except for the point of your blade marking me._

Sherlock fixed him with a wicked grin and his eyes flickered towards the clock. When his gaze met John’s again, his eyes were alight. Crinkling lightly at the edges with delighted surprise.

Some nights he found it wonderful, necessary even, to push past John’s barriers, to make him explain in excruciating detail exactly what he needed, but right now it was apparently quite enough to see the pleading in his eyes, to hear him just begin to beg.  

“Ten minutes and 46 seconds, John. I wasn’t sure you’d last four, based on your previous responses and how much you clearly need _this_ tonight,” he said, applying steadily more pressure, punctuating the word _this_ with enough force over John’s right hip to finally deliver the perfect, stinging burn that John craved. There were days when everything being an experiment had its benefits.  Of course he was being timed. He would have laughed, but the sensation was too much and instead John hissed a long inhale through clenched teeth and let out a groan.

He was too awash in sensation to be able to track just what design Sherlock was carving this time, only that line after line were being carefully etched into his flesh. 

Warmth flooded through him at the awareness, not only of the bite of the blade, but of Sherlock’s cock hardening against his thigh.  It was one thing to know he enjoyed this and quite another to feel how intensely it affected him.  The power, the control, the trust. The blood. It was almost dizzying.

John lost himself in the moment, unable to gauge time, just floating in one glorious moment, until at last, Sherlock set aside the blade, making a soft, pleased sound as he admired his work. He traced his fingers gently over John’s skin. _God, he was going to start teasingly again, wasn’t he?_  

And he did, touching everywhere except where John needed him the most.  His fingers swept up the outside of John’s legs from the ankles to hips, achingly slow. The self-control he had, both blessing and yet, just as surely belonged to one of the circles of hell. Sherlock’s hands were on him, but so lightly it could practically have been imagined, fingertips sweeping up, then back down, each new path slightly inside the other until he reached John’s inner thighs. Sensitizing every inch of skin, a trying study in frustration, always stopping just before reaching his pants.  At least John could console himself with the fact that this was equally torturing for both of them.  Sherlock was every bit as achingly hard, but willing to ignore that to draw this out.

He leaned forward and John thought he was going to mouth him through the pants, delighting as he often did in the desperate pleading moans that elicited, but he was wrong.  Stunningly, Sherlock tilted towards John’s right at the last moment, startling him with slick wet heat, flicking his tongue along the blade work he had just finished.

“Oh, Christ, Sherlock.” His voice shook as he uttered words that were caught between a curse and a prayer, John could feel his brain short-circuiting; years of medical training and knowledge of safety and sterility all frozen and useless, because Sherlock _had_ to do that again. And he did, tracing each line with lips and tongue while palming John’s prick through the fabric, dampening now as John leaked with desperate need.

Finally, Sherlock slid the pants down John’s thighs as far as his positioning and the restraints would allow.  John heard the telltale flip of the plastic lid as Sherlock opened the bottle of lube.  “Dear God, yes,” he whispered as he felt his lover’s silky slick fingers circling his tight hole.  Not quite probing, yet. Almost, petting. It made John squirm, the sensation managing to be too much and not enough at the same time as he became acutely aware of each sensitive ridge of flesh at his puckered entrance.

He was gasping and panting by the time Sherlock had worked up to pressing in, lithe fingers opening him one by one. If he hadn’t been tied down, it would have taken every last shred of patience possessed not to slam himself down onto those fingers and beg for more. He found himself wondering for the first time if he could actually take Sherlock’s hand.  Christ.

“Inadvisable, John,” Sherlock murmured. John shuddered. He would never quite get used to the way Sherlock seemed to read his mind. “Certainly not today. You are far too gone to be able to judge safety. This, on the other hand,” he whispered, removing his fingers, and taking a moment to smooth lubricant over his cock.  He dragged a footstool over and knelt at the edge of the bed, finally lining himself up. “With this, we know exactly what you can take.” He pressed in carefully, taking as much time with this as he had everything tonight.

“Please, Sherlock, do it.  Please.  I need you. Now.” More words than that simply wouldn’t come and he needed, he needed everything.  Their breath came in ragged pants and gasps as Sherlock slid all the way in. He stilled for just a moment as they adjusted, before settling into a steady pace. His hands gripped John’s hips, Sherlock’s fingers digging into the cuts. John cried out and felt himself clamp down with the pain, which only made Sherlock grip tighter. He drove his hips faster, almost viciously against John.  It was utterly perfect. Releasing John’s hips, Sherlock braced one hand against his chest as the other reached down to finally grasp John’s cock, working his fist in time with his thrusts and it was suddenly too much.  He came suddenly with Sherlock’s name on his lips, covering his chest and belly with his own come.  Sherlock thrust deep inside, John’s shuddering orgasm tipping him over the brink as well.  His hips stilled and John forgot to breathe as he felt Sherlock spasm within him, filling him.

They lay together for a moment. Letting the intensity of the experience wash over them. As their breathing returned to normal, Sherlock withdrew.

_God, he must look a mess._ Blood, sweat and come streaking his chest and hips, Sherlock’s come running down the crack of his arse to pool on the sheets.

“Absolutely stunning, ” Sherlock whispered and John closed his eyes, brilliantly sated.  He heard the water running and Sherlock returned with a flannel, carefully wiping him down.  The water was soothing, but John couldn’t relax yet.  He knew what was coming.  Sure enough, John heard the unscrewing of the cap and smelled the alcohol before he felt it. He hissed through his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut tighter from sting of the surgical spirit as Sherlock rubbed him down.

He let himself float, drifting in and out of sleep as Sherlock began untying the ropes, checking circulation, massaging the muscles sore from straining against the bonds. He stirred slightly, as Sherlock paid special attention to his left shoulder. He was vaguely aware that Sherlock left the room, only knowing that he had returned when he called John’s name, helping him sit up. He handed him a glass of water, which he drank gratefully and 2 paracetamol, which he blissfully refused. He would feel this in the morning and that was exactly what he needed.

Sherlock turned out the light and slipped into bed behind him. He might not actually sleep, but he was here. Humming appreciatively, John drifted off again.


End file.
